Vane walked slowly, his cane tapping a rhythm on the linoleum that echoed through the empty corridor. I matched his pace, my senses screaming at me to stay alert, to watch every shadow, to remember that this man had built an empire of branded killers and called it order.
The door to Celia's room was open. I could see her through the gap—still lying in that mountain of white blankets, still surrounded by beeping monitors, still exactly as we'd left her four days ago. The relocation equipment hadn't reached this floor yet. For now, she was still here. Still vulnerable.
"She hasn't woken up," I said. "In fifteen years."
"No." Vane stopped in the doorway, his eyes fixed on his sister's face. "The doctors say there's brain activity. She might hear me when I talk. She might dream. But she'll
